


After the Fireworks

by fussballundfreude



Category: Football RPF, Real Person Fiction, Sports RPF
Genre: Forbidden Love, Friendship/Love, M/M, True Love, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-17 02:32:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2293721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fussballundfreude/pseuds/fussballundfreude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone wanted to hug him. Everyone wanted a piece of him. It was dizzying, and he didn’t care if it showed on his face. All he could think of was the one person who wasn’t there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hallo Leute. Until a week ago I just saw two cute footballers with a rapport on the field that was out of the world. And then I discovered Götzeus and now I can't see them any other way. 
> 
> This story was inspired by a photo of Mario after the final, looking pensive and texting on his phone.
> 
> Just having fun! This is my first time writing on Archiveofourown, I will write more if you like it!

The sounds refused to die down, even after the celebration was over. On and on went the cheers, the laughter, the fist bumps. Everyone wanted to hug him. Everyone wanted a photo with him, even Rihanna. He put on his best smile, posed for the cameras, flash bulbs went off around him. It was dizzying, and he didn’t care if it showed on his face. All he could think of was the one person who wasn’t there. They had dreamed of this moment together, talked about it time and again.

“You’ll score the winning goal Sunny, in the 91st minute. And I’ll provide the assist.”

“The assist that pips Messi for the Golden Boot.”

“And we’ll celebrate, NBA style.”

“We haven’t done that in a while."

Instead, he had the winning goal, the Pokal, and the Golden Boot had gone to some young face, the media’s new man of the moment. And Marco was … where was Marco? He checked his phone as discreetly as possible.

“Who are you texting?” His girlfriend startled him. He hid his phone from her as she put her arms around him and pouted.

“No one. My phone is just exploding with messages.”

“Come, give that to me.”

“Don’t be silly.” He slipped his phone into the pocket of his shorts. “Having a good time?”

“Yes, what a wonderful party …” She stopped mid-sentence and turned away from him, pulling back her shoulders and pushing her chest out. “The cameras are on us. Don’t look so glum. You’re the hero of the night!”

He didn’t feel like a hero. But what would she understand? He pushed his gum to the side of his mouth and made his best effort to smile while she flaunted her curves for the cameras. The lights flashed in a blinding array around them, and then it was dark again. She planted a kiss on his forehead and slinked away.

He sometimes wondered if she knew more than she let on. But what was there to know? Even he didn’t know what was going on sometimes. He was confused by the depth of his feelings towards a man he called his brother, his best friend, but in truth was something more than that altogether. And that scared him like nothing ever had.

“Mario!” His teammate called, waving him over. He trotted over, posing, smiling, repeating the whole routine. Alone, he thought, looking towards the exit. I need some time alone. There were so many eyes and cameras on him everywhere he looked.

“Where’re you going?” Someone asked him. He didn’t even remember who. Back to my room, he replied. I forgot something.

He reached the elevator. An official he didn’t recognise and another lady followed him in.

“Superb game, Mario. Thank you for that wonderful goal.”

“Can we have a photo with you?”

He obliged as the official took a photo of the woman and him together. He barely made an effort to smile, nodding as they thanked him. The lift reached his floor, and he got out of the lift as fast as he could. Room 1921. When they got their keys, he wondered if it was some kind of conspiracy. He wondered if anybody else saw the coincidence. If someone in the hotel was playing games with him. Perhaps he was over thinking it; the entire floor had been reserved for their team.

He took out his phone as soon as he was past the door. Disappointment crept in as he scrolled through the long list of messages and missed calls. Nothing. Nothing at all.

Right after the match, as soon as he could, he ducked away from the media scrum and into the changing rooms. He didn’t have much time, they were already lining up for the award ceremony. But it was right there in the front pocket of his bag, the talisman that had accompanied him at every game in Brazil. He hadn’t any idea, at the time, what he was going to do when he asked Marco for his jersey. But he knew as soon as he saw his shot flying into the net. You’re right here with me, he thought as he held out his jersey on the podium, streamers flying over his head. There were so many cameras around, surely a few of them would have captured the shot. Surely Marco would have seen it. Surely he would understand what he was trying to say.

Just to make sure, he stopped for the cameras as they were following him around the pitch, holding out the jersey like a hard-won prize. This is your moment as much as it is mine. He was so sure Marco had heard him. But when he returned to the locker room and checked his phone, there was nothing, only a message from earlier, sent shortly after the referee had blown the whistle.

“You did it, champ!”

Maybe he was asleep. He checked the time on his phone and counted the hours. It was almost four in the morning in Dortmund. But how could he be sleeping? He wanted so badly to share the excitement of the moment with his best friend. He switched to the call list on his phone and dialled. He didn’t care that it was in the middle of the morning. They called each other all the time, at all times of the night. And he always picked up. But the phone rang and rang, and no one answered.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The festivities continue in Berlin, but Mario can't seem to enjoy himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your encouraging comments! I hope you like this chapter :)

Dawn streaked into the darkened cabin from the slit in his window. A few more hours and they would be home. A grand celebration awaited them, surely. They had seen the jubilant images, word filtering in through the excited voices of their friends and relatives. No one could sleep on the plane, and even after the lights were turned out the chatter continued, like schoolchildren whispering behind their teachers’ back. 

There was still no word from his best friend. His fingers danced uneasily on his phone, returning to the message on Twitter he had woken up to that morning. Thank you for the great gesture, it read, accompanied by a photo of him with Marco’s jersey. So he had seen it after all. But instead of returning his call he had chosen to thank him by copying the entire world. He reached for the window shutter and slammed it a little too hard. The sound startled his seat mate Thomas, who opened a sleepy eye.

“Too excited, golden boy?”

“Jet lag,” he said, slipping his phone into his pocket.

“Eh.” Thomas coughed and turned in his seat, away from him.

They probably thought he was still sleepless with excitement from his match winner, the only goal that really counted, the shot that had wiped away an otherwise forgettable tournament for him. Nothing had gone to plan, from Marco’s injury to the change in sleeping arrangements at the camp—Matthias was a good chap alright, but it just wasn’t the same—to the coach’s constant shift in line-ups and indecision before every game over whether he would play or not. And then there was Anna, who seemed to sense the discomfort swelling in him and tried to help him forget with her body, but he had begun to realize that the sensual pleasures that she offered were no balm for life’s more complicated problems. 

The next few hours passed by in a blur, or at least, that was how he remembered it later. They were all floating on adrenaline after a grueling month in the steamy Latin American continent that had left them bruised and knackered. But the first breath of Berlin’s temperate summer refreshed them instantly; back home the air was cool and crisp and the sun warm, not unbearable. He soaked in the cheers, the whoops, the slaps on the back along the entire ride to the Fan Mile. It was good to be back, he thought, chugging an ice cold beer with his team mates.

But the respite did not last long. There was a throng of reporters and cameras in the press room downstairs, and they were all waiting for him. 

“Come, Mario.” 

“Coach.”

“Let’s go.” He put a comforting arm around his shoulder, as though he understood the weight he was carrying on his shoulders.

“Thanks, Coach.”

“It’s not that bad. Just another hour, and you’ll be on the way home. You’re flying to München with Basti and the rest, right?”

“Yes.”

“And for the holidays?”

“Anna’s arranged something in Ibiza. It’s not really much of a summer break though. Gotta do the America tour with Bayern right after that. How about you, sir?”

“I think … I think I just want to go home and sleep for a month.”

“Me too." He laughed.

“I’m sure you’ll have a nice rest in Spain. Have you spoken with Marco?”

He wanted to say yes, that everything was great with Marco, his rehabilitation was going fine, they would be playing together on the pitch soon, that Marco was as thrilled as he was about his goal in the final. But he didn’t know, and it made him feel a deep sense of shame.

“Yeah,” he said after deciding that Twitter counted as a form of communication too.

“Good. It hasn’t been an easy summer for him. I’m looking forward to having the two of you on the field again.”

“Me too, sir.”

“You did the right thing last night.”

“I’m sorry?”

“What you did on the pitch. He’ll remember it.”

The certainty in Coach Löw’s voice lifted his spirits, and he held his head up a little higher as they entered the press room. Yes, there were things to look forward to, even after winning the World Cup at the age of twenty-two. Brighter and better things.

*** 

At long last, they were back at Berlin airport, divided once again by the clubs they played for. Philip and the Bayern clique for München, Mats and the new boys for Dortmund, and then there were the less represented destinations like Gelsenkirchen and Mönchen Gladbach. He couldn’t help but feel a piece of himself tearing apart as the flight for Dortmund was called. They bumped fists, hugged, and then his former club mates were off. 

“So, Ibiza, huh?” His club mate Toni sat next to him.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be right across. We have a house in Mallorca.”

“Real?”

Toni nodded. “Their rep’s meeting me there.”

“Good luck, mate. I’ll miss you.” 

They slapped palms, then hugged. Toni rose from his seat to do some last-minute shopping, and then he was alone. Passengers milled around him and past him in every direction, every now and then throwing a glance in his direction. He leaned back in his seat, pulling his cap lower over his face, and turned up the volume on his headphones. So Toni was leaving too. Philip had resigned that morning, he had only told the coach but there were no secrets in the team and everyone knew by the time they reached Berlin. A few of the other seniors were likely to join him too. They had lived a dream the previous night and over the past month, but it was ending, and that filled him with an inexplicable sadness. Everyone was going off on their own, separate paths. And what about Marco, with his unfulfilled dreams?

The ring of his phone interrupted the Bieber beat he was bobbing along to.

“Hey sexy.” Her voice never failed to turn him on, even in the middle of a busy airport at peak hour, and especially on the surround sound of his headphones.

“Hey babe. How was your flight?”

“I saw the fan parade on TV. I can’t believe how little they showed of you. I mean, aren’t you the new national hero? The camera kept panning to Basti and friends.”

“Yeah?” 

“Anyway, what time are you getting back? Everyone can’t wait to see you.”

The problem was that he didn’t feel like seeing anyone. Right there and then, he realized what he needed to do. She wasn’t going to be happy, but he had to go.

“I forgot to tell you, Anna. I won’t be coming back today.

“You can’t … what?”

“I … my mom just called me. She wanted me to help her with the roof.”

That was the only plausible excuse he could think of at the spur of the moment. He had bought a piece of land near the university for his parents after signing for Bayern. It had been a gift for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Neither of them were pleased, and it took them a long time to accept. But it was a perfect plot, located on high ground in one of the city’s best neighborhoods, and after much convincing they had decided to build their retirement home there.

“The roof?"

"Yeah. Sorry, it was really last minute."

"You're going to Dortmund? Now? Then when are you coming back? I don't believe this, I already arranged everything … and we told Marie we were going for her club opening tonight.”

“Sorry. Just tell them I need to go back home. I’ll call you later, okay?” 

He hung up. He wasn’t in the mood to listen to her huffs or complaints. There would be time for that later. In the meantime, he needed to find a flight home.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What awaits Mario when he returns home?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short update. Hope you like it!

It was almost midnight by the time he arrived at the all-too-familiar doorstep. He had forgotten how infrequent flights to Dortmund ran, and the only other flight that day was at nine in the evening. At the airport he hailed a taxi and the driver was so excited to see his illustrious guest that he did not bother to ask him his destination until they were well on their way. The city’s lights began to appear in the distance and Mario realized that they had missed the turning for Marco’s part of town.

“We’ll take Ruhrwaldstrasse?” asked the enthusiastic taxi driver.

He forgot that everyone in Dortmund knew where he lived. Everyone knew someone who knew him, or someone in his family. It was a world apart from München, a city which drew the bold and beautiful to seek their fortunes. Back home, everything was slow and sleepy, the only source of excitement the weekend games at the Signal Iduna Park. As a boy he had dreamt of the city and its big bright lights shining on a career that blazed stars across the world. But now that he was one step closer to that dream, he suddenly found himself missing the cosy intimacy of home, the smell of the roses his mother grew on the front porch and the trees in the park where they played ball after school. They had lived on the same street for well over ten years, and everyone still remembered him as the pudgy kid who had launched a ball into the Klein family’s attic.

“Herr Götze?”

“Sure, we can go that way.” 

He couldn’t decide if it would be worse to show up unannounced at home or at Marco’s doorstep at such a late hour. But the taxi driver had decided for him: they were turning off into the leafy suburbs of Hombruch, where almost every house was occupied by a university professor or senior administrator. He directed the taxi to the nearest junction and got off. 

The lights in his house were dark, and then he remembered that his parents had postponed their flight so that they could see more of Rio before returning home. That made things easier: he could drop off his suitcase, pick up his car keys, and be on his way without any questions. His car was parked at the back of the garage, so he took his mother’s station wagon instead. It wasn’t a long journey in any case, since the city was so small, even though Marco did live on the other end of town.

Even after he made it to the Bundesliga, even after he leaped into the exclusive multi-million euro club, Marco continued to live in the same suburb, just down the street from his parents. It was a part of town he unconsciously avoided growing up, with tobacco and sleaze shops tucked in between the grocer’s and the bakery, crude graffiti on the sidewalk and hooded young men loitering in the alleys. He had suggested moving closer to the stadium but Marco laughed it off.

“Yes, my commute will be five minutes instead of fifteen, but so what? All my friends live here. I grew up here.”

“So you don’t smell piss when you open the window at night.”

“Right, and I should live in Hombruch, where it’s so fucking quiet old men die in their sleep and no one knows.”

That conversation hadn’t gone well, and Mario ended up feeling guilty for starting the topic. It wasn’t his intention to highlight the differences in their families or upbringing, he just didn’t understand Marco’s thinking. If he had the means to lead a better life, why didn’t he?

He eased his car into an empty lot across from Marco’s row house. At least he had chosen an estate which was relatively new and clean, he thought, as he kicked an empty beer can across the road. Most of the residents seemed to be young families, judging from the tricycles and swings in the front yards. Marco’s yard had a barbecue grill and picnic table, but the grill was covered and the picnic umbrella closed shut, as though they had not been used in a while. Unlatching the front gate, he mounted the porch and pressed the doorbell.

There was no answer.

Somewhere in the distance he heard a woman yell, followed by a man’s angry voice. Tires screeched and a door slammed shut, and then the night was still. It was so quiet he could hear his heart pounding. He glanced at the windows again. The curtains were all drawn but there was light coming from somewhere inside the house. He rung the door bell again.

“Marco?” he shouted.

A few minutes later he heard footsteps, and then the porch light flickered alive. The door swung open. In front of him stood a bare-chested man with a towel around his waist and a frown on his face. Water dripped from the ends of his hair, as though he had had just stepped out of the shower.

“What are you doing here, pretty boy?”

“Marcel?” He took a step back. “I … I was looking for Marco.”

Marcel raised a perfectly drawn eyebrow, and then he said, “He ain’t feeling well tonight sweetheart.”

“He’s sick? What happened?”

“Why don’t you—“ 

“Mario?”

The voice came from behind him. He turned around to find Marco at the gate. Their eyes met, and all of a sudden he wasn't sure if he had made the right decision to come.


End file.
